(R.H. Herron)
Like Brooke said,
Let’s Play with the Homophobes Again!
“Would you vote for a presidential candidate who supports same-sex marriage or civil unions?”
Go to the poll at the Traditional Values Coalition and tell ’em whether you would or not. When I voted, 62% were saying “Hey-ell no, I’d like to vote against love, please.” When explored, it really is a rather spiteful, hateful site. Ah, well. Maybe we’ll get that percentage turned around, huh?
Back at home now. Little “h,” that is. The drive was again non-eventful, except for the howling of the cats. They’ve been so good for the past few trips, but last night’s drive really upset them. And it didn’t end when we got home: Digit spent most of the night up and growling at the windows until I lost all control and put him out at midnight, raccoons and possums bedamned. Then I worried and got up at half-hour intervals until four when he deigned to come back in, muddy and self-satisfied.Then I was up at six for work.
Yawn.
Mom’s feeling a leetle better, though tired and wobbly-pinned. She’s been newly diagnosed with hypoglycemia, which has been making her shaky and ill. She had to make an emergency room visit right before I went home, and they’re the ones who actually diagnosed this particular problem. Not her doctor, oh, no. That would be too easy. (Have I mentioned how much I abhor her doctor?) So armed with multiple test results, she was supposed to see her doctor today, FINALLY, after an agonizing, sick, three week wait.
The office called her yesterday at 5:03pm to tell her, oh, you’ll actually be seeing a nurse tomorrow, not the doctor. Mom was so flabbergasted she could only gulp and say okay. When she told me what they said, I pitched a fit and made her call back to find out the reason for the switch. But they’re canny. That’s why they call AFTER five o’clock — the phones roll right to the answering service.
Bastards. Fuckheads.
(I told Mom that’s why daughters are good at taking care of their mamas: They can do all the swearing that the mama doesn’t want to do.)
Close your ears.
fuckers fuckers fuckers.
fuckers.
That’s okay, that doctor has NEVER done anything for Mom. She folds her arms and says, over and over, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. This is not my field. I have no idea how to help you.”
This is her primary care doctor, mind you. The nurse she’ll be seeing today has actually helped her in the past, giving her advice and diagnoses and referrals, so that’s something. It’s just the principle. Ya know?
Deep breath.
Mom felt well enough yesterday to go with me to the movies. We went to a matinee of Calendar Girls. Delightful little movie, and Helen Mirren was a hoot. But what was a bigger hoot was the audience. Arroyo Grande, where my parents live, is quite the retirement area. And they were ALL at the movie yesterday. Mom and I were the youngest there. I walked in with my popcorn and had to search the sea of white heads to find my mom’s waving arm. There must have been a hundred and fifty seniors packed into the stadium seating. One nursing home had come in a large bus.
And those seniors? Worse than teenagers. They hooted and hollered and yelled at each other. Cell phones going off all over the theatre. It was hysterical.
Now it’s my Monday. But it’s probably your Friday, so congrats! You made it!
“Looked good.”
Those were really good words to hear. Deep sigh of relief. Of course, we had all YOUR thoughts with us, which helped immensely. AND I sent Mom in to the hospital wearing my only (so far) cashmere sweater.
One should ALWAYS go to the hospital in cashmere. I was vastly annoyed when they made her change. Grumble. I left the sweater out, though, on top of everything else. When in need, I reach for the good stuff, and I encouraged the little mama to do the same. She’s tucked up now, hopefully sleeping. And I hope to do the same soon….
(Seriously, I’m such a cash-ho. I’ve tried everything I can think of with that plastic yarn crap, made a top-down raglan to the armholes, started a bucket-o-chic, started a sock (even put on a lightning bolt, rock-alongers). It’s awful. Horrible. And worse, I’m out of the Koigu I brought (finished the sock) and I didn’t bring anything else! The withdrawal has me jumpy.)
Twitch. Twitch.
But happy twitches. Thanks, y’all, for all the well-wishes. What would I do without you? And no more – this dial-up is too slow for impatient, tired me. Go say hi to Bethany who has good news, too.
It was a good drive down the coast, but I felt disconnected. Looking back, I can hardly remember driving today. I played music, even though I had a book-on-CD on the seat next to me. I didn’t stop for too many snacks. The cats didn’t howl much. I had the distinct feeling that the car was moving me. That sounds weird, but I think I mean this: Instead of riding in the car, I was very conscious that it was pushing my body forward. That make sense? Dunno. Not a lot of traffic. I got two Krispy Kreme donuts at the outset to sugar-high me up. (I have to say, I have a lot riding on White Castle hamburgers now. We got Krispy Kreme from the east, thinking they MUST be over-hyped, but heck no, they weren’t. They are as good as the legend had foretold. Now, as I plan my Spring Fling east, I’m thinking about those discrete little bite-sized hamburgers. Are they really as good as they say?)
The little mama is doing all right. She’s such a trooper. This tells you something about her: Today, while she had some time to slay, she watched the DVD of Winged Migration and loved it so much she played some of it back again. Inn’at great? I’m not going to watch it, meself. I know myself well enough to know that I’d be one of three things by the end: vastly irritated, motion-sick, or too emotionally invested in the birds’ welfare.
Thinking about the drive again.
Why do people tail-gate?
There’s absolutely no reason to EVER tail-gate. ‘Cept maybe at a football game, I suppose. Having never been to a football game, I can only imagine the fantastic tail-gate parties that must occur at such events. (Two years ago, the Raiders were playing the *Can’t Remember the Team’s Name* on one of those hotter’n’hell late autumn day. One of those days when the wind whipped everything for miles, including the coals from the hibachis left cooling while their owners were inside the stadium watching the game. Eighteen cars burned up in the parking lot. Can you imagine? The Raider Nation coming out to find their SUVs torched? It was a losing game, too, if I remember correctly….)
Rambled enough. Knitted a bunch today on what promises to be a crappy little pullover made from two strands of crappy yarn held together. I was hoping crap + crap would = fabulousness, but hell, I shoulda known better. Been a long time since I worked with anything acrylic (we’re talking Red Heart here, folks. The anti-cashmere. It’s kind of interesting in science project kind of way).
Here’s a thought I can’t get out of my head: A candy-colored Noro Lo-Tech sweat. Ooohhhhh. Off to bed with me now. G’night.
Taking a quick trip Home this weekend (my weekend, that is, which by now you know is the opposite of YOUR weekend).
Home, I’m sure you know is vastly different from home. For me, Home is the Central Coast, just south of San Luis Obispo, a little town called Arroyo Grande. Little h home is Oakland. There’s a world of difference between Home and home, and some of those differences are:
Strawberries
Clam chowder
Little Mama
Fog
Pops
No TV channels, cell phone reception, or fast internet connection
Therefore, when at Home, I knit a lot. Mom’s got some physical stuff going on, and I’m going home to kick some ass. Nicely. Sweetly. But firmly. Her doctors don’t seem to take her seriously, and how can you blame them? She’s the cutest thing ever. But HEY! She don’t feel so hot. They need to fix ‘er. Or I’ll know the reason why. I’m the biggest pushover in the world, seriously. Too Nice, according to all who know me, especially exes. But not when it comes to my family. Just try it. *balled fists*
Bethany’ll hate me, but here’s a shot of the little Mama and Bethy on a bench where we eat donuts in the mornings. (That was the last we saw of that leather jacket hung over the end of the bench — Beth’s heart is still broken about it. We drove away and left it behind. Shoot.)
Non-sequitur: Iris Dement makes me happy.
Off to pack a little (surreptitiously – if Digit gets wind of my road trip, he’ll won’t come back in tomorrow morning after his necessary potty run. Don’t tell him).